The Lie and the Lady (35 page)

“You've never been to a ball before?” he asked.

She nodded. “My mother became ill around the time I was to come out, and . . . it wasn't a great interest of mine anyway. I . . . no one will ask me to dance. Aside from Mr. Blackwell, of course, which he did only to be polite, I'm sure.”

“Hmm.” He thought he understood. She must be worried that she wasn't going to enjoy it. Considering the pressure that she was putting on herself (and that the countess was likely putting on her, albeit unconsciously), it was no wonder that her face was grave and her attention intensely focused on her work.

“I do not often attend balls myself,” he said. “But I can promise that you'll have fun—scientific experiment or no. And if you are not having a good time, just come find me and we'll dance together. Although I warn you now, I am not terribly accomplished either. But we can trip along merrily enough.”

Miss Babcock's face came up from her work. There was a swipe of dirt across her cheek. Her braid was coming loose around the ears. But as the blossom of color on her cheeks gave way to a wide spectacular smile, something very curious spread through his insides.

Well, he could say this about the upcoming ball: it wasn't going to be boring. Not a bit.

19

P
almer Blackwell's estate was located approximately ten miles away from Helmsley, across the Wolds and near another of the market towns that ringed the landscape, called Frosham. It was just a hair too far to travel on a daily basis, but for a onetime event of this magnitude, everyone was willing to make the effort.

And everyone did.

The trek to get there was not difficult, and was in fact quite scenic in the late summer evening. Many citizens of Helmsley took advantage of that, beginning their reveling from the time they left their homes, and making their drive as festive as possible, with singing and wine. The Babcock carriage passed more than one cart that had pulled off the road to allow the occupants to enjoy the sunset, the atmosphere, and possibly to sober up.

But while the natural beauty of the Lincolnshire Wolds would impress even the most cynical city dwellers, Palmer Blackwell's “estate” was much the opposite.

The construction was new—within the last few years—and in an effort to impress with size, Blackwell had done away with grace or elegance. His home was a large box framed with columns in the Greek-revival style, on an open expanse of recently cleared ground that was a bald spot on the lush landscape around them. Incredibly overblown and tacky.

At least, that was Leticia's opinion.

But as they pulled up to the front gate, Sir Barty hummed in appreciation, and even Margaret's eyebrows went up, impressed.

“Look, m'dear! Torches lining the walk, and every window ablaze with candles. Must've cost a fortune!” Sir Barty nudged an elbow into her ribs. “And all for us.”

Leticia nodded politely. But secretly, thinking about Palmer Blackwell's gauche taste made her far less nervous about the evening ahead.

Because she was nervous.

“I can't believe we are so late!” Sir Barty said, shaking his head as he eyed his pocket watch. “You underestimated the amount of time it would take to drive across the Wolds, m'dear.”

She could have simpered, demurred, and told Sir Barty that he was correct. She could have let him pat her hand and say he would take care of it next time, as she shouldn't be expected to deal with things as demanding as time management. But honestly, she had amorphous evidence of perfidy to find tonight and it needed to go perfectly. Her mind was elsewhere.

“No, darling, I estimated it accurately.”

Sir Barty's brow came down. “But, I told you, I appreciate punctuality. M'dear.”

“Yes, but there are some things you want to be a little bit late for,” Leticia answered. “Consider, what would they do with us if we were the very first people to arrive? Mr. Blackwell would want us to stand up with him and greet guests.”

And as much as she wanted to spare Sir Barty's leg, arriving early would also play into Blackwell's hands and harm the Turners, to have Sir Barty seen as such a close friend he did the honors of greeting the guests. Besides that, she thought it remotely possible that if they arrived as early as Sir Barty wished (which was practically luncheon, “to help” as he put it—dear man, he was quite excited), Blackwell likely would have given them a tour of his house. And she needed to be able to claim she had gotten lost, if necessary.

But that wasn't to say that she didn't know the layout of Blackwell's estate. No indeed. Because Miss Goodhue was teacher to the cousin of one of the builders of the house. A quick introduction on market day, fifteen minutes of small talk about possibly having a small pergola built on the far side of Bluestone's orchard, and she was able to ask the man about the layout of his biggest project to date and subtly steer the conversation to the uses of certain rooms. So she knew that the library was on the second floor, but Blackwell's study was on the third. And she was going to have to check both places for any records the man might keep.

Which meant either she was going to have to utilize the servants' staircase to move from one to the other (and it was going to be much in use during a ball, with footmen and maids bearing trays) or she would have to disappear twice from the proceedings.

If only she had an accomplice, things would go much more smoothly.

But she had not spoken to Turner since that day in the churchyard. She could not. Therefore she had never received an agreement to her try-and-find-out-something-terrible-about-Blackwell plan, and she had to assume she was alone in the endeavor.

She supposed she could have approached Helen, but she was counting on the woman to distract Sir Barty during her absences. She could have asked Dr. Gray. But he was such a straightforward, honest fellow, she doubted he could lie convincingly if caught. She even considered asking Margaret—but ever since the girl had tried on her blue silk ball gown with the hem extended by new ribbon, she'd become more excited about the dance itself, more dreamy, and Leticia didn't want to ruin that.

Thus, as she mounted the steps to Blackwell's Box of Garish Plainness, she knew she was alone.

As alone as someone escorted by her fiancé to a ball in their honor, that is.

“Sir Barty! At last!” Palmer Blackwell cried, his face breaking into a wide grin upon seeing them. He'd put a copious amount of oil in his hair and side-whiskers for the evening, turning his already dark hair an inky black to match his evening kit. As he bowed low over her hand, she could swear she saw her reflection.

He would be laughable, if he wasn't so cunning. Cunning and dangerous.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Leticia said smoothly as she extracted her hand. “Your home is a wonder.”

“Isn't it though?” Blackwell said, no modesty at all. “I did all of the decorating myself. But whatever wife I end up taking will have free rein to put her stamp on it.” His brow waggled in Margaret's direction. (Margaret, for her part, seemed oblivious to such brow waggling.) “And Miss Babcock, I am delighted to see you.”

“You invited us,” she stated.

“Yes,” he replied patiently. “But I was becoming worried you would not arrive in time for the first dance. Which I have claim upon.”

“We would never have allowed that to happen,” Leticia said smoothly, with a wink to Sir Barty. “But Margaret and I must avail ourselves of the retiring room before we begin dancing.” Which was true. Even sitting as still as possible, ten miles of travel had crushed their skirts, and they needed a good brushing.

“Of course,” Mr. Blackwell replied, indicating. “It's through that corridor on the left. Now, Sir Barty, you have to allow me to show you the refreshments. I know you are a connoisseur of haslet. Interestingly enough, the refreshments table has a view down into Frosham, where you can see my latest windmill construction—six sails, and can handle any grain . . .”

Mr. Blackwell looked over his shoulder at her as he abandoned the receiving line to show Sir Barty his refreshments, haslet, and mill. It was the risk she took, leaving Sir Barty to Blackwell's influence. But if the evening went as planned, it wouldn't matter. She would have the ability to extract Blackwell from their lives entirely.

“Is it all right?” Margaret asked when they were in the ladies' retiring room—which was anything but retiring at that moment. There were a dozen women in what normally must have been a sitting room, placing powder on noses and having maids manage broken hems, laughing and chatting and fanning.

Leticia was kneeling at Margaret's feet, gently shaking out the silk of her gown and letting it fall gracefully into place, minimally less wrinkled.

“I tried to be very careful,” Margaret said, a strange sort of panic in her voice.

“And you were,” Leticia replied. “No skirt remains wrinkle free when stuffed into a carriage. No matter how careful the wearer.”

“Good.” Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Although her hands still had a little bit of a shake to them, something she squelched by gripping her dance card until it bent.

“Everything will be lovely, you know,” Leticia said reassuringly. “There is no need to be nervous.”

“I know. And I've been assured that I will have fun,” Margaret replied, clear-eyed. “It's just . . . I feel that tonight will be important.”

They emerged from the retiring room, stepping out into the hall.

Her eyes immediately locked on to Mr. John Turner's.

He was by the mouth of the hallway, where it emerged into the ballroom, standing with Dr. Gray—who, after having once again wrapped Sir Barty's foot, had opted to travel with Turner and Helen, and allow the Babcock ladies more room for their skirts in the carriage.

He looked stunning. (Mr. Turner, although Dr. Gray wore his evening dress very well, indeed.) No, he was stunning—stopping her body from moving, her heart from beating, suspending the world around them like a leaf held in the air on a breeze.

She'd seen him in evening clothes before—the stark black of his suit coat, the crisp whiteness of his shirt and white cravat. This was nothing new—handsome men always presented well when they gave even a modicum of attention to grooming.

But it was the set of his jaw, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he acknowledged her with a slight bow of the head that had her holding her breath.

Leticia managed to tear her eyes away for the briefest of moments, and looked over to Margaret.

Who had gone from pale with worry to blushing with fire.

“Yes,” Letitia agreed. “I feel tonight will be important too.”

“ARE YOU ENJOYING
yourself, Mr. Turner?”

Miss Goodhue was angling herself between him and the dance floor. Therefore, to look at her he had to see the dancers behind her, swirling in time to the music. And by the hopeful look on her face, and the way she swayed her own skirts, her obvious intention was to find herself a dance partner.

He wasn't dancing tonight.

“Yes, Miss Goodhue,” he answered. “If you will excuse me.”

He knew her mouth fell open from his rudeness as he walked away, but he couldn't care. He had too much to do tonight. He had to keep an eye on Blackwell. He had to keep an eye on Sir Barty. He had to keep an eye on Leticia.

He needed more eyes.

He'd considered not coming to Blackwell's ball. It seemed a bit crass to attend a party celebrating the engagement of the woman one loved to another man, thrown by one's enemy. Add to that, as his mill was finally complete, and now just awaiting the beginning of the next harvest, he was more and more reluctant to leave it. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen now. But he'd hired three very brawny, loyal, and somewhat dim men to patrol the mill yard while he was away.

He couldn't miss this.

At least, that was what his mother had insisted.

“You would disappoint Sir Barty?” she'd asked, aghast. “Miss Babcock? Leticia told me that Margaret has been very excited about the ball. I should hate for her only dance partner to be that horrid Mr. Blackwell.”